


Spoons

by delighted



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9825008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted
Summary: Danny’s got a drawer full of plastic spoons. Takes him a while to figure out why.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This utterly ridiculous bit of fluff came from two random things that crossed my path—an enamel pin of a spoon with “Spoon with me” written on it, and the image of a text exchange: “RU flirting with me?”/ “I’m fucking trying.” They blended together in my mind and wouldn’t let go.... so this happened. :-)

The top right hand drawer of Danny’s desk is surprisingly neat. It didn’t used to be that way, but one day Grace got stuck waiting in his office while an emergency was dealt with in the outer room and she organized all his office supplies: threw away the pens that no longer wrote and the pads of post-its that had only one left. A week later she gave him a drawer organizer, and threatened to perform regular checks if he didn’t use it. Ever since then, he’s somehow managed to keep that drawer tidy, even if the rest of his desk succumbs to chaos.

The left hand top drawer, however, is a different story.

They eat out a lot, the Five-0 team. Partly it’s necessity—cases don’t usually or even often come during regular operating hours. Partly it’s habit—when you become used to take out, you become less accustomed to planning ahead for food. And partly it’s that there is so much fast food on the island that’s actually really good. Kamekona’s truck being one obvious example, but his is by no means an aberration. It sometimes seems to Danny that the whole island runs on some kind of “don’t make plans, just grab something when the time seems right” theory of food organizing. He fought it for a long time, but he’s much more relaxed about it now.

Which maybe explains why he has a whole drawer full of plastic silverware. There are some forks, a few knives, but mostly, it’s spoons.

One day, while waiting for an important call, he was anxious and pacing and driving Steve bonkers, so after the fifth time Steve yelled at him to chill out, he went into his office, shut (okay, slammed) the door, and angrily rifled through his drawers, because, you know, stress makes us do stupid things.

All of which is to explain why it was that Monday afternoon found Danny sitting at his desk, staring into a drawer of plastic ware and contemplating the meaning of life.

That is to say, it suddenly occurred to him that there might be some meaning behind the contents of the drawer, and maybe he should do something about it.

Danny’s typical plate lunch is the butter shrimp from the truck down the street (Kamekona’s is further away, and their “after case celebration” location, but not really the best for a quick lunch). The sauce has tomatoes, and capers, and if you mix the rice in, it soaks it up and is really lovely. He gets green salad rather than macaroni salad as his other side, because Grace yells at him about that as well. So, he uses the plastic forks that come with the meal. He sometimes uses the knives, if the shrimp are especially big that day, but they don’t always include knives. They do, however, always include spoons, because sometimes the rice gets a bit soupy with the sauce, and because they don’t pay attention to what all is in the box when they bag it, and some people really prefer spoons for macaroni salad. Danny tends to be more a “spear your food” than “scoop your food” kinda guy anyway, so he doesn’t use the spoons. Habits, though, die hard, and he keeps them, tossing them in the left hand desk drawer the way he always has.

Steve’s favorite plate lunch is similarly fork-worthy. He usually gets the fish, usually spicy (Danny’s taken to carrying mints with him so that Steve’s lunch breath doesn’t offend witnesses), and salad as well—Grace doesn’t have to motivate his healthier habits, he does that all on his own.

Somewhere along the way, Steve developed a habit of handing his trash to Danny, rather than throwing it away himself. Probably it started because he’d tend to just leave stuff, and Danny would yell at him for making a mess, and Steve (having passive aggressive tendencies) maybe one day when he was in a crabby mood, got back at Danny’s nagging by handing (okay, maybe throwing) his trash at Danny.

What started as snark and sass and teasing, as most things with them do, rounded into less conscious behavior, and gradually Danny became Steve’s receptacle for unused items. They’d eat lunch, usually in Steve’s office, then Danny would get up to go back to his, and Steve would hand him his trash, and also his extra spoon. Danny never really thought much of it, he just tossed those spoons in with his own.

But at some point, the practice expanded. Steve would go get them an afternoon coffee when things were slow, or malasadas after a late night case, and he’d bring Danny a spoon. Since he was typically being handed multiple things at once, Danny just kind of accepted the spoon as part of the whole, and didn’t really think much of it.

Until Steve started doing it at slightly odder times.

They’d be at a bar, late on a Friday after a rough week. Danny would slide into a booth, sighing out the tension of the latest case, and Steve would get them those obnoxious blue cocktails with pineapple and orchids because they made Danny smile (after he made an attempt at pretending to hate pineapple), and Steve would also bring Danny a spoon.

“What the hell is this for, Steven?” Danny would ask.

“In case you need to fish the cherry out from the bottom of the glass?” Steve would offer, if he was in a pleasant mood. Or, more likely: “In case I need to spoon feed you that drink to get you out of your pissy mood,” if he himself was in a pissy mood.

For some reason, Danny always kept those spoons.

Sometimes, Steve was more subtle in his spoon giving: He’d tuck one into Danny’s shirt pocket, smile, and whisper “Just in case,” turning away before Danny could complain; he’d make sure a spoon was sitting out on his kitchen counter next to Danny’s coffee mug when he showed up in the morning before a case; and any time Steve got them take-out at his place, he’d set the silverware out in front of Danny, always with the emphasis on the spoon.

Eventually, Steve had moved on to handing Danny a spoon while making eye contact and saying in a voice smooth as silk: “ _Here’s your spoon, Danno_.” That was unsettling enough, but recently, Steve had started handing Danny spoons in a more... undercover sort of way. Behind his back, under the table; surreptitiously, without eye contact, without saying anything, but pressing the spoon, softly yet firmly, into Danny’s hand.

Those spoons, Danny kept as well.

Sometimes he had to carry them with him for a while before he could put them safely in his drawer, so it had gotten to the point where Danny had a spoon on him just about all the time. Strangely (or perhaps not very, given their line of work), this had come in handy on more than one occasion. Danny often didn’t want to touch things—can you blame him, given some of the experiences he’s had? And, they sometimes didn’t have the correct materials for gathering samples for Eric. Sometimes a spoon was just what was needed.

At any rate, on that particular Monday, waiting for that call, staring into that drawer, Danny was half way to a new thought on the spoon issue when the call finally came through, and Steve bellowed for Danny to come, and they were off again.

It was a rough case, a long day, and they wound up at some bar, crashed in a booth in the corner, having ordered burgers and beers, and having absolutely no reason whatsoever for spoons.

Steve slid into the booth next to Danny—far too close to Danny, to be honest, as they both stank and were covered in muck and sweat and probably blood as well. He didn’t seem to mind, however, as he pressed up against Danny’s side. Leaning forward, just inches from Danny’s ear, he whispered: “Here you go, Danno, here’s your spoon,” and he pressed the spoon into Danny’s hand, closing his fingers around it, holding on to Danny’s hand for a moment, before sitting back just a little, looking far too intently into Danny’s eyes.

Danny was tired. He was crabby. He was pissed as hell at the jerks who had tried to blow Steve up just hours ago. He was pretty sure he needed a week on Maui to even begin to feel human again. And he’d been thinking about the damn spoons all fucking day.

So maybe that’s why, instead of silently accepting the offered spoon, instead of making some snarky comment, instead of ignoring it... instead, he blurted out: “Are you flirting with me?”

A smug grin spread slowly across Steve’s bruised and scratched face. “I’m sure trying.”

“How long have you been trying?” Danny asked, looking away from Steve’s eyes, down to the spoon in his hand.

“A really long time.”

“Yeah?” He knew he sounded doubtful, but he wasn’t sure he felt it. He thought possibly he felt more like everything made a whole lot more sense. He looked back up at Steve.

“Yeah.” Steve was smirking now.

“You’re not very good at it....” _That damn smirk_ , Danny swore under his breath, feeling his pulse speed up.

“Actually I am. You just don’t notice.” Did Steve usually sound this... sultry... when talking to Danny? He was pretty sure not.

“Is that so?” Danny barely whispered, sounding as breathy as he felt.

“Yep.” Steve turned and picked up his beer, taking a long drink.

Their burgers came before Danny could think of a reply to that, and they really were famished, so they ate quickly and in silence, still sitting far far too close together. When they were done, Danny took the keys from Steve and drove them back to the office. He sat, perfectly still, waiting—for what he didn’t know. Steve leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and said “Sleep well, Danno,” then got out of the Camaro and headed to his truck. Danny was still sitting there when Steve pulled out of the parking lot.

Danny took a very long shower that night, and not just because he was filthy. His mind kept replaying the kiss, and he could still feel the spoon wrapped in his fingers, Steve’s pressing into them with such strength, such warmth. Danny had some very odd dreams that night, involving spoons and strong hands and soft, scratchy kisses.

Tuesday morning came too soon. He was awakened by a text from Steve saying he’d bring them breakfast, to go right to in because they had too much paperwork to do and they needed to get it done fast.

Danny beat him to the office, and headed for Steve’s desk to start work. Not too long after he’d started, Steve ambled in, looking far too bright-eyed and bushy tailed for the day—and night—they’d had. He brought Danny’s coffee and breakfast sandwich over, setting them both down on the desk. Then, holding Danny’s gaze, he put a spoon down next to them. He smiled, then sat down across from Danny to eat his breakfast.

Not even close to being able to think clearly about that, Danny instead focused on the work.

The rest of the week went much the same. They were very busy, but a lot of it was just paperwork. Steve would bring them food, placing a spoon down next to Danny (not handing him one, not even once), and at the end of each day, Steve would find a way, subtly, out of sight of the others, to kiss Danny on the cheek, and whisper “Sleep well, Danno.”

Friday finally came, and Steve sent the others home early, telling them to take Monday off as well.

Danny was sitting on the sofa in Steve’s office, drinking a beer Steve had handed him before he’d gone to tell the others to shove off. When he came back in, he sat down, right next to Danny, opened his own beer, clanked it with Danny’s, sighed, and leaning back, did the arm around the back of the sofa thing, completely and utterly not subtly at all.

“So, buddy,” he said after downing most of his beer in one go. “What are we going to do this weekend?”

Danny let out the softest of breaths, shaking his head barely perceptibly. But he was smiling. And his heart rate had picked up.

“Something to do with spoons, no doubt,” he finally replied. He felt the smirk forming, didn’t need to look over to see it.

“Sounds like a plan,” Steve said, and finishing his beer, he stood up, held out a hand to Danny, and pulled him up. “Go home, get showered, put on something nice. I’ll pick you up at seven.” And he didn’t wait for Danny to reply, he just headed out of the office.

Right exactly on the dot of seven, Steve showed up at Danny’s door, holding an actual bouquet of spoons.

They were pale blue (where did one even get pale blue plastic spoons, Danny had to wonder), and they were tied with a darker blue ribbon.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Danny mumbled, but accepted the spoons, along with another kiss on the cheek, before needing a moment to admire the way Steve was dressed.

Not for the first time, Danny was slightly peeved that Steve looked so effortlessly elegant. He had no doubt thrown on the first thing he grabbed, where as Danny’d had very near to an existential crisis in his own closet trying to decide what to wear—appropriately he’d settled on a pale blue shirt he knew Steve thought made his eyes look bluer ( _just...don’t ask_ ). Also not for the first time, Danny felt his admiration for his frankly gorgeous partner stir parts of himself he’d thought he’d grown past. Impatient parts, parts that were tempted to skip dinner and head directly for the post-dessert drink. Preferably in bed. Preferably naked. Adolescent bits that wanted to bite. Really, really mature and collected and sophisticated bits. Yep.

_Damn_.

Fortunately, Steve was quite busy admiring Danny, and it gave him time to set the spoons down inside and collect himself just a little before locking the door and handing Steve the keys.

Steve grinned hugely at that, then he went around to the passenger side, opened the door, saw Danny safely inside, and closed the door, tapping his hand on the roof before walking around to the driver’s side and climbing in.

He took them to an intimate, quiet, out-of-the-way place Danny hadn’t even known existed. There were only a few tables, it was dark and somehow _secret_. Danny felt like a character in a Bond movie, and yes, he felt very much like he was being wined and dined by Bond himself. They had excellent steaks, surprisingly good creamed spinach, and the richest, pepperiest Zin Danny’d ever tasted. He was kind of smitten with the whole experience. Then came dessert. Crème brûlée, never one of Danny’s favorites—till now. And not just because Steve fed it to him (with a spoon of course). It was quite possibly one of the most amazing things he’d ever eaten. Of course, that might have been the Zin talking.

By the time Steve dropped Danny back at his door, with another kiss on the cheek, Danny’s head was swimming in sensations he’d forgotten he was capable of feeling. He grabbed Steve’s hand as he was turning to leave.

“Babe,” he whispered, voice hoarse from the strain of not pushing Steve against the door and ripping that infuriatingly perfect white shirt off his broad chest. “Thank you.”

Steve’s soft smile quirked into half a smirk, softened by some odd warm glow which maybe was just Danny’s own heat.

Pulling on Steve’s hand, which he’d not let go of, Danny tugged him closer, till he was standing right next to him. Feeling slightly ridiculous but not really caring, he stood on his tip toes and kissed Steve on the lips.

“Let’s go surfing tomorrow,” he said, as he sank back down on his feet.

Steve’s face really lit up at that. “Great! I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Danny groaned.

“I’ll bring coffee and malasadas!” He yelled over his shoulder as he turned towards his truck.

Danny dreamed about spoons again. And crème brûlée, and Zin, and Steve’s bare chest.

The next morning he basically just rolled out of bed, threw on his swim trunks, grabbed a tee shirt and a towel, and just managed to be ready when Steve showed up, fresh as a spring rain, perfectly groomed, with a cup of Danny’s favorite coffee, a box of his favorite malasadas, and a suspicious looking cooler chest in the back of the truck along with his board. Tossing Danny’s in with it, he once again opened the passenger door for Danny, planted a kiss on his cheek, and made a not at all subtle sweep of Danny’s early morning bed-head look. He seemed to approve, which had Danny rolling his eyes, but secretly enjoying the attention.

Surfing was excellent that day, and he was glad they’d gotten an early start. They stayed out till they were exhausted, then Steve sat Danny down under a tree and brought out the lunch he’d packed. Sandwiches and potato salad—with spoons. Danny rolled his eyes again, but didn’t complain, especially when Steve brought out the soft chocolate cookies after. They sat in the shade and talked about the waves for a while, then their exertions caught slowly up with them and they started to lag a little.

“Come back to mine for a shower and beer?” Danny offered.

Steve turned to Danny. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t even smiling. He looked so intense Danny nearly gasped. “Yeah,” Steve said, breathy and freaking steamy. Danny’s heart thudded.

They made it to the house. They even made it inside. They didn’t quite make it to the shower before they’d taken their trunks off and started kissing, slamming against several of the walls as they went, stumbling, tripping, groaning and gasping, finally making it to the shower where the steam obscured the mirrors but Danny didn’t need to see his reflection to know that he looked utterly blown with lust. After the shower they fell on the bed for round two. Taking a break for beers, they wound up with round three in the kitchen, determining the kitchen counter really was that sturdy. Back in bed, sated, blissed out, more content than he’d felt in a long time (if ever), Danny was stunned, just stunned, that this was real.

They were cuddling, Danny’s head resting on that broad chest he’d so often longed to touch. Steve was seemingly fascinated with Danny’s hand, twisting it in his own, caressing his fingers, studying his palm, his wrist. It was surprisingly sexy, Danny decided.

His mind had finally calmed a little, and he found himself returning again to the thing that had gotten them here.

“Why spoons, babe?” He asked, as Steve continued to explore Danny’s hand.

“It just kind of happened,” Steve mused, pausing his caressing. “I found I liked having something to give you.”

“I saved them all, you know,” Danny said, encouraging Steve to continue his attentions to his hand.

“Did you?” Steve asked, sounding pleased. “How many do you have?”

Danny laughed. “Far too many to count, babe,” he said, and drew Steve’s hand to his lips, planting a kiss on each finger.

Eventually they got up, made some food, watched some TV (or rather, didn’t watch TV but made out like teenagers instead), showered again (more sedately this time), and wound up back in bed, curling up for sleep.

“Hey, look at that,” Danny whispered as they were drifting off. “We’re spooning.”

“Yeah,” Steve mumbled into Danny’s hair. “I like this better than the plastic ones.”

“Me too, babe,” Danny sighed. “ _Me too_.”


End file.
